


i'm pulling you out of the burning buildings

by memitims



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:48:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2183688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memitims/pseuds/memitims
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and mickey thinks they're too fucking in love to stop themselves from falling off a cliff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm pulling you out of the burning buildings

**Author's Note:**

> requested by [**absolvesammy**](http://absolvesammy.tumblr.com/) as part of the [angst prompt meme](http://distractedpainter.tumblr.com/post/82169288531/another-angsty-starters-meme) on tumblr ("Don't trust me.")

Mickey goes over the Gallagher house, sometimes, when it’s either too empty or too busy for anyone to notice him, for anyone to pay attention to him and Ian, and that’s exactly the way he likes it. He sneaks in the back door and finds Ian at the kitchen table, bent over homework or something, probably his fucking calculus bullshit, or whatever the fuck people that actually go to school do.

“Gallagher,” Mickey says, and Ian turns around, with a smile around on his fucking face, like hearing Mickey’s name is all he needs to be happy. Mickey hopes that’s not true. He’s in deep shit, either way, because he thinks that sometimes, Ian is all he needs to be happy, and that’s not the kind of shit he can be thinking about. Not if he wants to survive.

“Hey,” Ian calls, grinning stupidly, and he pushes all his papers to the other end of the table and closes his textbook. “Was beginning to wonder if you were ever gonna show up.”

Mickey scowls at that. “Not like it’s a fucking date, Romeo,” and Ian raises his eyebrows a little, because neither of them say it aloud, but they both know that it kinda is. They never do much more than hide out in the backyard and fool around, but there isn’t really anything else to call it.

They find a pan of brownies cooling on the kitchen counter, and Ian isn’t sure how they got there, but they smell pretty fuckin’ good.

“Sweet,” Mickey says, and he grabs a couple for each of them.

He follows Ian into the backyard, and it’s dark enough that Mickey lets Ian sit close, their shoulders steepled against each other, the darkness blanketing them in a way that hides them from the world. The Gallagher house is quiet tonight, the lights dim and the stars bright, and Mickey and Ian sit in silence and eat their brownies.

Mickey’s halfway through his third one when it hits him.

“Shit,” he laughs. “These are fuckin’ pot brownies, man.”

“Oh.” Ian giggles, too. “I think you’re right.”

Mickey looks up, and the stars seem shinier, the way they always do when he’s stoned. He chances a look over at Ian.

Ian’s eyes are the brightest thing he’s ever seen.

“Jesus,” Mickey whispers to himself, because this is a terribly, horrible idea, he gets sappy and clingy when he’s high, all his fucking walls come down and he shouldn’t be like this around Ian. Not when he wants to touch Ian so fucking bad. His limbs feel light and loose, like he wants to wrap them around Ian and never let go, like Mickey is a moth drawn to the warmth of Ian’s fire, or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, something’s gonna end up in flames.

Ian laughs, again.

Mickey moves quickly, like lightning, and he catches the end of Ian’s laugh between his teeth, he pushes Ian to the ground and kisses him hard, because his eyes are bright and there’s no one around and Ian’s lips on his feel like a lock clicking into place, like the world is suddenly balanced and Mickey can’t fight it, never could.

They kiss slowly. It’s long and dragging and lazy and Mickey could probably do this forever. Ian tastes like chocolate and the stupid watermelon chapstick he borrows from Debbie and the crisp smell of fresh air.

Ian pulls back, for a second, his eyelids fluttering open to gaze up at Mickey.

“Hi,” he breathes, into the space that separates them, the gap between their lips that Mickey was always so afraid to fill, because cities would collapse and buildings would ignite if he did, until Mickey realized it was the opposite. Not kissing Ian would bring the true disasters, the kind that would eat and burn and tear away at his heart until there was nothing left.

Mickey takes a deep breath. “Hi.”

He takes another breath, his heart spinning in his chest, and keeps going, because of the brownies and the fact that his head is fuzzy and there’s nothing stopping him anymore.

“I think I might be in love with you,” Mickey whispers, like it’s a fucking secret, the weed making him say things he never would otherwise.

“Oh,” is all Ian says.

“Isn’t that fucked up,” Mickey continues, more to himself than anything, and he untangles himself from Ian and sinks down onto the ground next to him. “Ian, you can’t -”

Mickey’s breath catches in his throat, because Ian turns to look at him, their faces half-smushed against the dead grass of the backyard, their noses practically brushing, and he swipes a gentle thumb down Mickey’s face, touching Mickey like he’s something strong and fragile, all at the same time.

He usually breathes better when Ian’s around, he forgets his fear and just sinks into the peaceful quiet that Ian brings with him, he forgets how to twitch nervously, he forgets that his life is a train sliding off the rails, he forgets how to run away. Then Ian touches him, and it’s not like he can’t breathe, exactly, but it’s like all his breath bottles itself up and tries to escape, all at once. There’s a difference, Mickey thinks.

“You can’t trust me. Don’t. Don’t trust me. I think I love you, but I don’t know what to do with that.”

Mickey doesn’t even trust himself not to break both of their hearts. He doesn’t know how Ian ever could. Then again, Ian always saw the bright side, was ever the fucking optimist. And that’s where Mickey screwed up, he fell in love with Ian, and the way he always fucking believed things could get better, and Mickey doesn’t want to be the one to erase that.

(Mickey’s already been to juvie twice, he’s already fucked up too many times to count, and he wants to point that out to Ian now, that he’s already left twice and it’ll inevitably happen again. Ian can’t possibly trust him to stay.

Except, Mickey doesn’t say that. Because he knows what Ian will say back, has already planned out the whole fucking conversation in his head. Ian will argue that even though Mickey got himself locked up, he came back both times. If they got through that, Ian would say, why can’t they get through the next fucking challenge that their shitty lives throw at them.

And that’s where they’re different. An optimist and a boy who’s screwed for life, too fucking in love to stop themselves from falling off a cliff.

Mickey thinks it’s almost funny.)

“Okay,” Ian says, his hand still warm against Mickey’s skin. “Okay.”

“I don’t want you tangled up with this. With me.”

Ian laughs. “I think it’s too late. We’re stuck with each other.”

Mickey doesn’t respond, he just rolls back on top of Ian and takes his face between his hands, kissing the taste of brownies out of his mouth.

They rock back and forth against the grass for a while, until Ian unbuttons his pants and undoes Mickey’s too, and the grass feels nice against their skin.

“Will you fuck me?” Ian asks, quietly.

“Okay, yeah,” Mickey bites out against his neck, and he fishes the small bottle of lube and a condom from the pocket of Ian’s discarded pants, and he gets to work.

He fucks Ian slow and sweet, the way Ian likes it, and he catches Ian’s small noises with his mouth, sliding his hands up and down Ian’s cock to draw them out. The weed makes him lazy, makes him take his time, makes him do stupid shit like whimper and smile and kiss the gentle slope of Ian’s collarbone.

“Mickey,” Ian whines softly, over and over.

Mickey is so overwhelmed, so wrapped up in everything Ian Gallagher, surrounded by this boy who taught Mickey that he’s not actually a coward, and  _fuck_ , he knows he’s in love.

“Ian,” he gasps out, as he comes, and Ian spills out over his hand, and they fall together into the grass, the good kind of falling, not the kind that Mickey’s afraid of.

“I think I kinda love you too,” Ian says thoughtfully, into the planes of Mickey’s chest. “Got it?”

Mickey nods. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t know what else to say, he doesn’t know how to convince Ian that this isn’t a good thing, because Ian just isn’t wired that way. He doesn’t see that this is just the eye of the storm.

Ian presses a soft kiss into Mickey’s skin, and it makes something flicker inside his hollow chest. Mickey wonders if maybe the Ian he argues with inside his head has a point. They do have a knack for finding their way back to each other.

He knows love isn’t magic, he knows it doesn’t fix everything.

It doesn’t stop him from hoping that the other shoe never drops, that he never gives Ian another reason not to trust him, that everything works out okay.

Mickey’s never gonna be the optimist Ian is, but it doesn’t mean that he never has hope.

**Author's Note:**

> title from _[crush](http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/261503-i-m-battling-monsters-i-m-pulling-you-out-of-the-burning)_ by richard siken


End file.
